


The Art of Physick

by Rabbit



Category: Prince of Foxes - Samuel Shellabarger
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Servant, Medical Conditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabbit/pseuds/Rabbit
Summary: Mario helps Andrea recover from the wounds inflicted upon him by Angela Borgia, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Mario Belli/Andrea Orsini
Kudos: 1





	The Art of Physick

Though a good deal more stable than he had been, Andrea Orsini yet tossed in and out of fever for some time, willpower and Mario Belli's attentions working to repair his lung. The confinement of illness permitted time for thought, though thought exhausted him, spinning always in the same frustrating circles: said frustration born of the utter inability to /do/ anything apart from think. At least, in this, the outwardly demonic presence of Mario served as something of a poultice in more ways than one-- the ensign proved himself wholly of parts-- eyes, ears, hands… The hands in particular always and all ways fixed Orsini's attention. The beauty of them, he noted and dwelled upon often. As he drifted in and out of sleep, he saw them often, sometimes holding the ominous garrote that had belonged to Simone Furia, below a stone-like smirk. Sometimes he meditated on them, as they worked to replace a bandage, or mix him something tonic, for his strength. And ofter still, he thought of those hands in other offices, pleased as they had been once or twice in the recent past to do him a turn.

He had not realised he dozed, for he woke with something of a start to find Mario seated beside him, looking into the wound with a granite expression on his face. It occurred to Andrea that he ought to ask after the state of his own health, but the words did not come. There was too much exhaustion for that. Instead he watched his ensign through lidded eyes, feigning sleep, focusing somewhat on the brush of those fingers against his skin as they worked. Presently, Mario finished his dressing, but before he could rise Andrea caught his wrist and looked up into his eyes.

"Have I mentioned…" he swallowed, "Have I mentioned… Thank you, Mario. For all that you have done?"

"De rien," Belli muttered, a flush upon his cheek making him appear even more the devil, though it were only short lived, "And I mean that. I won't have a patron die in my service, or his interests falter. You've had my word on that since…"

"I know, I know. Mario…" It hurt to speak. Mario sensed this and put a finger to his lips.

"Shhh, My lord. " He murmured, "don't strain yourself."

But strain, nonetheless was present. A fevered moment took hold of Andrea, and he kissed the finger that pressed against his lips, and pulled it into his mouth, sucking as a babe might upon it. It was comforting, but if the ensign was surprised by this kind of comfort, he gave no sign. He allowed it instead, stroking his patron's damp hair instead, feeling his hot skin burn with illness, recovery, and with something else.

"Mario," he breathed, through a slight, breathless agony, "I need…"

"Shh shh, My lord." Mario clicked his tongue, and gave his fingers a snap, "I know it well. I merely did not wish to strain you."

"Not a bit of it, my friend," Andrea tried for a smile and managed a weak, but sincere one, "nothing comforts me more, at such a time as I am most in need of comfort."

"My lord should let his leech be the judge of that, but now that your life, at least, is safe…" He slid the hand that Andrea had been kissing under the blanket, where it swiftly found that other part of Andrea severely in need of professional attention, "Diable, my lord, I see how you've beaten your fever-- you've told it to go somewhere else. Your flesh scalds."

"Does it?" Andrea whispered, sweating, it is to be admitted, rather in profusion, "I believe still that it is your doing…"

"Ssh, I told you." Mario rumbled firmly, and as if to seal this, along with… something else, Mario bent and pressed his twisted lips against Andrea's. They were surprisingly soft and warm, and that Andrea's lips parted for him was quite nearly a surprise to them both. It was a long, satisfying kiss, only enhanced by the feel of Mario's hand on Andrea's cock, stroking gently so as not to stress things too far-- save Andrea's patience, as he moaned in agony with each tug. The moaning, at least, would have a good explanation-- if the master queried, they could easily say that the illness had been responsible.

Every part of Andrea's skin was paradoxically both damp, and afire. He lifted his fingers weakly as Mario worked and caught the sleeve of his doublet.

"If you love me… Mario…" For a moment it was unclear as to what Andrea was asking, but another, semi-delirious and harder tug enlightened him.

"Now, I don't know about that, My lord…" But Andrea was adamant. Still somewhat nervous about this, Belli removed his own doublet, then his shirt, and finally, at the insistence of his master, his hose and piece. The rest of his body was scarred and knotted, but not unpleasant, though Belli felt something of a shiver under Andrea's mild, artist's scrutiny. "You know… with little softening… I could paint you… as Bacchus… laughing… with cloven hooves… and a garrote… instead of a pipe and glass…"

"Heaven forbid," Belli muttered, and replaced his hand beneath the sheet, "Pan, patron of murderers? Hardly…"

"And yet…" Andrea smiled, "For all your good help… you are killing me…"

He attempted to reach up and Belli, fearful he would move too much and displace his bandage, instead came to him, allowing himself to be pulled beside his master on the bed. Sleeping two to a bed was common enough, and they had done it plenty of times in the narrow fare permitted by taverns, and hostels, but a sickbed was something different, and Belli's instinct was to protest. But the light of need was in Orsini's eyes, along with fever, and he was in no mood to be that kind of cruel.

"Very well," He all but growled, "But for heaven's sake, don't move too much."

"Si Mario, my Good Angel," Andrea tried to laugh, but Belli kissed him again before he could do too much of that and pressed a leg between Andrea's, rubbing his him against the already quite firm object there. Andrea moaned, clearly pleased by this, and encouraged Belli's hand, kneading now his hip, travelled deeper, touching not only the delightful instrument there but lower still, beneath the heavy, swollen sacks that required a goodly bit of massaging, before he passed them by. But pass them he did, the tip of his finger stroking feather-light a rather remarkable entrance, which spasmed a touch, but pressed itself against said finger, almost stroking it back with a kind of greedy hunger. He looked up at his master's face and saw that his eyes were closed, and his head pushed back, the color even higher than before, the skin perhaps slicker with the results of this and temperature. But there were some things one did not ask of one's master, questions… well, the answers to such questions may or may not be enlightening, or useful. But they were simply not ask-able, not now.

For Andrea's part, while he was aware, to a degree, of the confusion this must be causing in Mario's mind, he could not bring himself to care. He ached, and his head swam as if in dreams, and a spectre loomed over him, leering, and to his shock he found that the beautiful, chiseled visage of Caesar Borgia held profoundly more terror for him than that of Mario Belli. He preferred to fill his own with that of the latter, and other things as well… he moaned again, pushing his body against the sublime touch of Mario's hands, and his ensign swallowed.

"Un moment." Perhaps there was a use for one of that learned quack's poultices after all. Belli smirked wickedly as he fished one of them up, a sweet smelling ointment, and coated his fingers in some of it. It was warm, and tingled slightly to the touch, but Belli imagined no harm would come if he applied it… Andrea seemed to appreciate this, his moaning more pronounced.

"Ser Mario…" He gasped, but Mario had another free finger to place against his lips again.

"I told you before… I'll not do anything that might jeopardize your progress. I don't want you moving, too much. So…"

Andrea might have protested, but if that was his intent, it disappeared before the sensation of one of Mario's slick fingers entering him, passing through the burning flesh to a place where the ache became, by parts, concentrated pleasure. Obeying Mario's directive, Andrea did not buck or move as much as he might otherwise, and Mario nodded his approval of this course. If he was further surprised by the receptiveness of Andrea's body, he chose to ignore that in favour of meeting his patron's needs, slaking his hunger by moving, gently within him, and pressing his finger in deeply enough to caress a certain gland of which he was aware-- this not hardly being the first time Mario had done this sort of service-- which increased the pleasure a hundredfold. It was very difficult for Andrea not to convulse at this, but he mastered himself in spite of his increasing delirium, confining him self to a long, enraptured hiss, as wave after wave of pleasure jolted him from that place throughout his body. To add to this, Mario's own cock had become… quite awake, itself, and as Belli moved, it rubbed still more against Andrea's thigh, the tip of it leaving the proof of his arousal on the skin, the more it kissed there. It required Andrea almost no effort at all to reach for it there, and to explore it with his own hands, the silk of the skin there a not unfitting compliment to the crude and formidable girth it possessed. He stroked it, contemplating this, and Mario moaned too, albeit much more softly, and tried not to bite Andrea's shoulder. His patron smiled.

"Mario… you must promise me… when I am well…"

"Sacre Dieu," Mario blasphemed, "And I hear that I am the fiend. Well…" He added another finger and plunged it more deeply into Andrea, spearing the gland there hard, and making Andrea gasp. The former peasant's grip tightened on the former lord's member, and he managed a quick and nimble pace that nearly robbed Belli of his ability to concentrate on anything else, including thrusting and massaging the inside of Andrea's body… but he could quit neither office in good conscience, and he clung fervently to the performance of one and the endurance of the other. His body being under no injunction to immobility, he spasmed freely, and with every one of his own spasms his lord's skin seemed to become hotter, his breath deeper, his sighs more ragged and yet more vital. Pleasure, then, was truly as much a tonic as the best poultices… it was this thought that echoed in Belli's mind as a thumb across the head of him, spreading the early product of his arousal over the taut, aching skin there threatened to send him over. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, to prevent that… there was pride to consider, and he was not coming across before his master had. Even if he himself had not touched anyone since… well, enough with thinking of that. He had a task, after all.

Once he had discovered Belli's intent, it seemed to amuse Andrea to attempt to foil this object-- his attention to Belli's body growing more pointed and intent, his whispered-- Belli assumed they were the product of fever, but-- admonitions promised certain things that ought not issue from the mouth of any lord. Belli kissed him again, as that seemed to be what he wanted most of all, and responded with some spice of his own, growling almost, into his ear,

"Well then, these aren't enough for you, my dear Lord Orsini? What you need a proper cock in you, driving into your body… you want what to fill you, then? Well, by all the devils in hell, I will make you get better… and then, my beautiful patron, you know what I will do to you…?"

An anguished noise escaped Andrea, and in spite of his best efforts he arched a bit-- though not so much as to disturb his dressings-- as Mario's fingers plunged and withdrew then plunged again, touching off something inside him that made everything white, and red, and trembling, and bursting with stars… and then… everything cold, and the sweat began to evaporate from his skin as he lay there panting, his hand around Mario's cock the firmest anchor to reality. He squeezed it again and re-devoted his attention to it's stroking; with that kind of effort, Mario's best resistance could not long hold out, and soon the bravo too was spending, his roar muffled by Andrea's neck, his seed thick and hot upon his master's body. He lay there, cooling, against Andrea's side for a long moment, and placed a hand upon his forehead, the side of his neck.

"Your fever has broken," he murmured, sleepily.

"Has it? For all your physick, Mario, I should have thought you would expect that." Andrea's smile turned beatifically into his servant's hair, "but that is as it should be, my friend. That is as it should be."


End file.
